Chapter 6 #2
During a time-out, the camera cuts to a close-up of Ollie on the bench. Sweat darkens his hair at the temples. He leans forward, elbows on knees, listening intently as the coach talks. He looks… steady, grounded.
Alive.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I ignore it on instinct. Rosa notices.
“You’re allowed to have a life while watching basketball,” she says.
“I do,” I lie.
She smirks. “You have zero dating life.”
I choke on my water. “Excuse you?”
She gestures at the screen. “I’m just saying. I’ve been here three days, and you haven’t so much as flirted with the barista.”
“I don’t flirt,” I say.
“You’re a musician,” she counters. “That’s a lie.”
I scoff. “I’m also tired. And sober.”
She rolls her eyes. “Those things don’t cancel out attraction.”
I don’t answer. The truth is ugly and complicated, and I don’t want to unpack it out loud.
I’ve tried. Over the years, I’ve tried to move on. To prove—to myself more than anyone—that I wasn’t stuck in amber, that my life didn’t end when Ollie walked away.
There were a few almosts. A few kisses that felt wrong the second mouths touched. One night when I went further—far enough to finish, far enough to immediately feel sick with guilt, like I’d betrayed a vow no one but me remembered taking.
I haven’t tried since, because I’m married. Estranged, abandoned, functionally alone—but still married. And seeing Ollie again cracked something open that I’d worked very hard to keep sealed.
Is it a sign, or is it just the universe being cruelly efficient?
The second quarter starts, and the Eagles—Ollie’s team—pull ahead. He’s everywhere. Defense, offense, leadership bleeding into every possession.
“Damn,” Rosa says. “He’s carrying them.”
“He always does,” I reply softly.
Midway through the third quarter, he makes a drive to the basket. There’s contact. A stumble he recovers from too quickly. I lean forward without realizing it. Ollie shakes out his shoulder as he jogs back down the court, and my stomach drops.
The commentators catch it a beat later. “Looks like Marshall took a hit there—shoulder might be bothering him.”
“Probably lingering from last season,” the other adds. “He’s tough, though. We’ve seen him play through worse.”
I don’t like the way that sentence sits.
On the next possession, Ollie grimaces as he reaches up for a rebound. He lands hard, rolls his shoulder again.
Rosa frowns. “That doesn’t look great.”
“No,” I agree, tension coiling tight behind my ribs. “It doesn’t.”
A trainer approaches. Ollie waves him off, and he stays in and plays on. And somehow—because he’s Ollie Marshall—he still delivers. Still hits his shots. Still commands the floor like pain is just another thing he refuses to acknowledge.
I hate it. I hate that he’s hurting and that I can’t do anything about it. I fucking hate that my first instinct is to reach for my phone.
I don’t.
Because I’ve already crossed one line. Because I told him I couldn’t. Reaching out now would be selfish, born from fear instead of care. If I open that door even a crack, I don’t know if I can close it again.
Rosa watches me watch him, her attention shifting from the screen to me with unnerving precision. “You’re still in love with him,” she says.
The words feel like a slap. I turn to her so fast I nearly pull something. “What?”
She blinks, clearly not expecting that reaction. “Jesus, Rafe.”
“How—” My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat. “How the fuck do you know?”
Because I’ve never said it. Because I’ve never let anyone say it. Because I’ve built my life around not being that obvious.
Rosa gestures vaguely between me and the TV. “Come on.”
“That’s not an answer,” I snap, panic creeping in around the edges. “Rosa.”
She studies me for a beat, then sighs. “Okay, fine. You want the itemized list?”
I don’t say anything. I just stare.
She ticks it off on her fingers. “You’ve spent over ten years insisting he was ‘just a friend’ while somehow never dating anyone seriously.
You watch his games like it’s a religious obligation.
It’s Friday night, and instead of going out, you’re sitting here with me, eating home-cooked food and staring at a basketball broadcast like it might explain your life. ”
My lungs stall.
“And,” she continues, softer now, “you just quietly poured a shitload of money into a program he’s leading. No press. No ego. No strategic benefit. Just… belief.”
I swallow.
“That’s not normal,” she finishes. “That’s not philanthropy. That’s… personal.”
I look back at the screen automatically, like Ollie might save me. He doesn’t. He just keeps playing, jaw set, shoulder clearly hurting, still refusing to step back.
“I didn’t do it for him,” I say, because I need that to be true.
Rosa nods. “I believe you.”
I glance at her, startled.
“But,” she adds, “you didn’t not do it because of him either.”
The room feels suddenly too small.
“You know he’s straight,” she says gently, like that’s the part she thinks hurts most. “At least… that’s what the world thinks.”
I don’t answer.
I can’t, despite hearing the question in her tone. The truth presses hard against my ribs, demanding to be let out, and I’m not ready for that kind of earthquake. If she knew we’re married…. Fuck, I can’t even go there.
Rosa reaches over and nudges my knee with her foot. “You don’t have to explain it,” she says. “I’m not asking you to.” Her voice softens. “I just don’t want you pretending this is nothing. Not to me. Not to yourself.”
I drag a hand over my face, the weight of being seen settling heavy in my chest. “I didn’t think it was obvious,” I mutter.
She snorts. “You’re terrible at hiding the things that matter.”
I hold back my wince. If only she knew.
On the screen, the crowd erupts as Ollie sinks another impossible shot. My heart lurches like it always does.
Rosa watches my reaction—not unkind, not smug, just quietly certain. “You don’t have to decide anything,” she says. “But you can’t keep living like this doesn’t exist. You deserve to love someone who will love you back with everything they have.”
She thinks this is a huge case of unrequited love, which honestly, it fucking feels like it is. I stare at the screen, at the man I’ve loved in all but silence for most of my adult life, and feel the truth settle somewhere deep and unavoidable.
She’s right. And that might be the most terrifying part.
After seeing Ollie again—after hearing him talk about the charity, after watching him play like nothing in the world could stop him—it feels impossible to pretend nothing’s changed.
And yet… everything has.
The game winds down to a win. The crowd roars. Ollie’s name echoes through the arena again as the camera finds him, sweat-soaked, breathing hard, smiling faintly despite the way his shoulder is clearly bothering him.
My chest aches.
Pride.
Fear.
Love.
All tangled together.
Rosa breaks the silence. “I’m seeing someone,” she says.
I glance at her. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says, smiling. “He’s… good. Kind. Annoyingly stable.”
I raise a brow. “Annoyingly?”
“Very,” she confirms.
I nod. “Does he make you happy?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then that’s all that matters.”
She smiles, then turns the question back on me. “Maybe you should put yourself out there.”
I stare at the screen, now filled with postgame analysis. “I don’t know if I can,” I say honestly.
When Ollie left, I dug my heels in. Refused to file for divorce. Refused to let it be officially over, even when my bandmates gently suggested I should protect myself.
Ollie never asked for it either.
The media have never even suspected we’re married. As far as the world knows, Oliver Marshall has always been single.
Have I been clinging to something that’s already gone?
Maybe seeing him again was a sign. Not to run back, but to let go. To stop living like my life is on pause, waiting for a version of the past that doesn’t exist anymore.
Rosa reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Just think about it.”
I nod. “I will.”
The thought won’t leave me.
Divorce papers.
Finality.
Freedom—for both of us.
The idea hurts, but so does staying like this.
The credits roll on the broadcast, and the apartment feels quiet again, the fog pressing gently against the windows like it’s listening.
I lean back into the couch, close my eyes, and let myself feel everything without pushing it away.
Love.
Anger.
Gratitude.
Loss.
Hope, dangerous and unwelcome.
One thing is painfully clear now: Seeing Ollie again didn’t close the door. It reminded me it was never locked.
And whether I choose to walk through it or finally walk away, I can’t keep standing still.